


Cyclus

by HeyPassTheAngst



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Adventure, Angst, Death, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), Peril, Psychological Horror, Some mature themes, Survival, Violence, character backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23357596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyPassTheAngst/pseuds/HeyPassTheAngst
Summary: In The Constant, starving is the least of your worries. But you knew that already, didn't you?-DST oneshot collection. Same continuity, but not necessarily in order. Some shippy, some not (I'll warn ya).
Relationships: Willow/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	1. Even

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome dear reader to my Don't Starve headcanon Dumping Ground!  
> The doors are locked.  
> -  
> [ This one is Willowson-ish, but honestly it's mostly just Wilson suffering for many, many pages ]

Wilson looked around the clearing with his hands on his hips, his mouth a tight line. 

He had chosen this spot for their wood farm. The meadow was the ideal location, with loamy soil to enrich the saplings and plenty of light, unobstructed by undergrowth or mature firs. And of course it wasn’t too far away from camp nor so close that they would need to take up arms against a treeguard at a bad time.

It also, thankfully, hadn’t been too close to the neighboring forest because the place had since ignited, suddenly and without compunction or explanation. 

He scowled at the rows of pitiful black skeletons, what was left of his trees, as if it was somehow their fault this had happened. 

“I don’t suppose you know how this occurred, Mr. Higgsbury?”

Ms. Wickerbottom was crouched over, adjusting her spectacles. She examined the ash, as though through divination it might tell her how the meadow had been set alight. 

“I haven’t the foggiest…” Wilson testily kicked up a little cloud of ash. 

Not little enough. He coughed, wafting the soot away from his face. “It isn’t summer yet. It’s not even warm out.”

Fires didn’t just start themselves (well, at least not this early in the spring, anyway). Most perplexing was that this fire had raged long enough in the rainy season to raise the whole blooming orchard! 

“It had been thundering for some time the other evening” she said pointedly, “perhaps an errant strike of lightning?” 

“I built a lightning rod…” Not that you could tell, anymore. It was all the same sad heap of carbon now.

“I see… How very curious.”

It wasn’t curious to Wilson. It was infuriating, and he thought he had a pretty good idea of what (or should he say, _who_ ), had done it. 

They couldn’t find anything in the way of evidence that a beast had passed through. Not that they would find footprints, but if a fire hound had perished here Wilson would have expected to notice a charred carcass, or perhaps some teeth, or a lingering stench of singed fur. But there was nothing. And why would a fire hound be out here anyway? And what would have killed it?

Wickerbottom was already hacking away at the trees to collect the charcoal.

Well… waste not want not, he supposed, and he unsheathed his own axe.

“You mustn't fret, Mr. Higgsbury, the blaze was unavoidable on our end.”

“I’m not too sure about that.”

She looked quite austere, Wilson thought, with her knitted brows and the handle of her axe twisting deliberately in her hands... “I do not believe Mr. Carter is responsible, if that is your implication. I doubt he would set the trees ablaze only to spite you.”

She said that as though it were most agreeable, which it wasn’t.

Wilson harrumphed. “What’s your theory then? The fire didn’t start itself.”

“I am not insinuating that it did.”

He gaped at her. “Who else would do this? You don’t suspect the others, do you?”

Wilson couldn’t imagine that anyone else would start the fire, at least not maliciously. Wendy seemed too busy perpetually mourning to have any interest in starting fires for sport. Wolfgang and Wigfrid even less so. He supposed Wes was clumsy enough to start a fire on accident, but Wilson wasn’t sure he would lie by omission.

Wilson wasn’t sure about any of them really, having only known them for a few weeks. But they _seemed_ trustworthy. Maxwell was _definitely not_ trustworthy, what with his skulking about camp and his snide remarks...

“Do you recall, Mr. Higgsbury” some of the soot in the air had collected on her glasses, and she paused to clean them with a scrap of silk, “that Wigfrid’s introduction was preceded by a stampede she had unwittingly caused?”

He recalled very nearly being trampled by enraged beefalo, yes. Wigfrid had really been very apologetic upfront though, and the meat she had shared did soften the blow. “You think there’s somebody else out here? Just setting fires for the heck of it?”

“Perhaps not. It might have been an accident. Or they intended to take what was not theirs but were somehow accosted before they could manage to do so.”

That would explain why the charcoal had been left alone. A plausible enough theory… but he wasn’t convinced. 

“If somebody else were here we would have seen them by now, wouldn’t we?” It had been over a month since he and Maxwell had built the postern, with their current campmates appearing easily within a week of each other. 

“Unless they are intentionally avoiding our group.”

“Why would anybody do that?” And subject themselves to isolation in a wilderness as harsh as this one? Even he wasn’t so asocial. 

“Not all of us are so trusting, Mr. Higgsbury.”

Was that comment directed at him?

The scar on his hand felt itchy, suddenly. He ignored it.

“Do we seem… suspicious?” Wilson offered. 

Wickerbottom adjusted her glasses, looking contemplative before responding. “I don’t suppose I would know if we do... Let us keep our eyes open, for the time being.”

Wilson grunted noncommittally. He swung at a burnt tree, and suspired miserably as it crumbled into a pile of coal, a plume of ash flying into his face.

What a waste...

* * *

Damnable Maxwell! He shouldn’t have let Wickerbottom talk him into dropping anything! That’s four stacks of jerky made off with. Four stacks of jerky was a lot, enough for several days’ travel and who knew how many grams that was?

Wilson made a mental note to figure out how to make a scale out here eventually, and then went right back to moping.

“What troubles thee, Alchemist?” 

Wigfrid stood at the entrance to the tent, looking bemused. 

Wilson huffed. “Maxwell’s stolen my food! This is my chest!” 

He _knew_ Maxwell knew it was his chest because he had watched Wilson build the darned thing. Hadn’t lifted a finger to help, either. Well, now he was helping himself! First the tree farm and now this! 

Wickerbottom appeared before Wilson could get another word in. “What is going on here?”

“Ms. Wickerbottom, perfect.” Wilson flipped his chest open for dramatic effect. “Look here, he’s done it again.”

“Who has done what, dear?”

“Maxwell, that’s who!” He stomped his foot pettishly, like a boy who had been sent to his room without dessert. “He’s taken all my jerky for himself.” 

Wickerbottom looked sheepish for a moment, then stiffened. “I was not aware we were segregating our supplies.”

“Er...not strictly speaking, but-” Wilson had been here the longest and really, this was his chest, his among many different chests that the others all used, along with the meat inside it. Not that he never shared, but you can’t just take food out of a man’s chest without asking him! It wasn’t decent.

Maxwell isn’t decent, he reminded himself, you should have figured that out by now.

“Mr. Carter expressed an interest in the tree farm incident” she explained, “and offered to collect more lumber on our behalves. I thought it prudent to suggest he take a ration, as he planned to be out for quite some time.”

“Of course!” Wilson maligned. The perfect getaway! “Of course he did...”

“I had not anticipated that any of these chests were debarred, as we’ve all been cohabitating. I do apologize.” 

The old woman’s apologies were maddeningly businesslike, but Wilson didn’t think she was being disingenuous, just phlegmatic, so he couldn’t really be upset with her. Just at Maxwell, who had known better. 

The open, barren chest was mocking him now, so he closed it. “I had a plan for that jerky...” 

“Fear not, comrade! The strong one and I have been most successful on our hunt this day!” 

Wigfrid produced a large backpack that was bulging at the seams. It landed on the ground with a thud, and she began extracting its contents; beefalo primals, hastily but competently butchered. Always a welcome sight. 

Wigfrid was a welcome sight too, by proxy, Wilson thought, and then he began to feel very much like a conditioned dog. Would he begin to drool at the sight of Wigfrid?

He watched her tear into a foreshank unceremoniously, wiping blood from her lips as she went, and then he felt quite silly.

“Really dear, you might cook that first.” Wickerbottom’s voice dripped with revulsion.

“The stalk has been lengthy” Wigfrid declared, in between bites of sinewy flesh, “I must replenish my strength!”

“Gracious, Wigfrid, we brought plenty of food for the journey.”

“Must have been nice…” Wilson said bitterly.

Wickerbottom leered at him. “I’ll see to it personally that your jerky is replaced, Mr. Higgsbury. I’d thank you to drop the matter, rather than pout like a petulant child.” 

“Me?! Petulant?!”

“Yes.” She said dryly, peering over her spectacles. “And do not grind your teeth.”

He unclenched his jaw, still frowning and glaring.

“What plans had you made for that meat, Mr. Higgsbury?”

“I wanted to explore the forest to the west. I have a hunch that there are clockworks out there.” 

There wasn’t much to substantiate this theory, but he needed to start somewhere. His last camp, his nice one, had had an icebox. When he came here it had been only him, and then only him and Maxwell, so he hadn’t really needed an icebox. Now there were many people, some who ate enough for _two_ people, and he had no gears to craft a new icebox with... Not to mention that summer was nearly upon them, and he had nothing to defend their structures from imminent smoldering. 

Also, he hadn’t at any point been very good with other human beings, and especially not after a year or so of total solitude, and he felt rather out of his element. But he didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings so he hadn’t brought it up. He would adjust! Wilson was nothing if not resilient, but he needed ways to cope. An excursion was just what he needed to decompress. 

“I see. By yourself, then?” Wickerbottom cocked an eyebrow. “Is that the wisest course of action?”

Wilson scoffed. “I am not so delicate, Madam.” He straightened his waistcoat and puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. 

“Of course not, Mr. Higgsbury. Forgive me.” She said, a bit too casually. “Do be careful, in any case.”

“I always am.”

* * *

Well, Wilson actually had found some clockworks out here, which was a mercy.

Unfortunately he had gone and twisted his ankle in the scuffle.

He put pressure tentatively on his foot and hissed in pain. Damned automatons. Damned clumsiness! Wilson packed away his quarry, gears clinking musically as they fell to the bottom of his backpack, careful not to exacerbate his injury. He limped to a nearby tree to catch his breath, sinking to the forest floor with a groan.

Wilson prodded his ankle gingerly with his cool fingertips. It didn’t seem too serious - Wilson had suffered much worse - but it was just hot and swollen enough to give him pause. Dejectedly, he pulled out the materials for a fire; dusk approached, and he would need to rest for the night had he any chance of walking himself back to camp come morning. 

The fire crackled to life. He tossed in a handful of pine needles and watched it flare up with disturbing swiftness. Dry kindling already, and not even a week since the last rain. 

He sighed. Yes, in the morning, he'll need to return. Time was of the essence. 

Even if often he found himself not wanting to return to a camp of petty, thieving con men and condescending crones. 

Wilson chidded himself. What a reprobate he’d become! A spot of human contact finally and that was all he could think about? How inconvenient they were? Perhaps he’d rather go back to muttering alone in the dark, half crazed from exertion and eating rabbit entrails like a neanderthal! It’s certainly what he deserved!

What? No, that was absurd, he reasoned. He didn’t deserve to writhe in agony in some hellish dimension as though he were being punished for some sin! What had he done to be punished for? 

Been a disappointment to everyone? Hm? A simpering, cowardly, unproductive worm? Was that it? 

...This was going nowhere productive.

Wilson felt a pounding headache coming on as darkness fell. 

He dug around in his pack and pulled out a green cap, skewering it deftly and thrusting it into the flames. He focused on it, trying to ignore the condemnatory voices in his head. His ankle still throbbed: a nice distraction. He elevated it on his backpack. 

Summer was coming. They needed gears for summer. Wilson had just acquired gears. See? Not useless. Not incompetent. 

Except for the part where he had tripped on a rock and twisted his ankle, setting back their progress by a day...

That mushroom’s probably cooked enough. 

It was too hot for him to inhale it so he settled for taking many, many impatient nibbles. It was foul smelling, so Wilson held his breath in between bites, which made for slow eating. He felt a bit queasy, though from the pain of his sprained ankle or a mushroom-induced indigestion he couldn’t tell. 

It was still early, but maybe he’d just sleep it off now...

* * *

An oppressive new heat made Wilson fidget, half-conscious. Then a horrible dry cough overtook him and he awoke, disoriented. 

Smoke. 

It filled the clearing utterly; an impenetrable fog of doom. He could barely make out the dying embers of his campfire three feet in front of him.

Through the haze of smoke and sleep and heaving, he noted flickering shades of orange and yellow coming his way.

 _Forest fire_.

Wilson got to his feet. His ankle was still tender, but he could manage, as long as it didn’t spread any faster. He set off into the trees, emergency torch at the ready. 

He didn’t get very far before a wall of fire jumped in his path. A falling tree nearly clipped his side, his breath snatched away from him as he twisted away reflexively on his injured foot. 

He was running now, as much as his gimp leg would allow. 

The crackle of the inferno rang in his ears. It was raging all around him now. 

How had this happened? How long had he slept? 

Wilson couldn’t see. Wilson couldn’t breathe. He braced himself against a tree, wheezing. 

Then the branch fell.

Searing heat. White-hot agony. He yowled, thrusting the limb away and falling back, desperately trying to smother the flames crawling up his sleeve. His adrenaline couldn’t match the horrible stinging of his singed skin. He might have cried for help. It didn’t matter.

This was it then. Death by conflagration. 

Alone.

It was a new one, actually. The burning alive part, not the alone part; that bit was just poetic justice.

Shame he didn’t have any effigies up, this might have been a valuable learning experience. ‘Don’t take your fellow man for granted, you ingrate, or you’ll combust’, or something to that effect. 

His pulse hammered in the back of his throat as he tried to find his feet. The backpack weighed a ton. He was still hacking up his lungs when the familiar cloud of unconsciousness began to call on him. What little of the forest he could still make out went fuzzier and fuzzier with every moment that passed, and the sizzle of foliage was steadily replaced by a ringing in his ears. 

The last thing Wilson could register before he passed out was an urgent, desperate tug at his collar. 

* * *

The light of daybreak filtered through fluttering lashes. Cool stone turf cradled the unburnt side of Wilson’s face as he awoke.

His throat was tight and scratchy and sore. He groaned, forcing his eyes open, before making the mistake of scrunching his face, which sent a shockwave of burning, stinging discomfort from the corner of his mouth to his forehead, and he winced. 

Lord, everything hurt. But he was alive, somehow...

“Finally awake, huh?” 

Wilson turned, startled, at the voice. He blinked wildly, through daze of exhaustion and throbbing pain, at the person sitting cross-legged to his right.

A young woman. Wilson placed her somewhere in her early to mid-twenties, though with her conditioning it was hard to tell. Dark circles adorned her round, doll-like eyes. Her chapped lips pursed into a soft pout. Her face and neck (framed betwixt frazzled, dark brown twin tails), were dusted with grey soot. Her clothing was tattered, her knee-length skirt in particular, which was peppered with holes, exposing the flyaway threads of the dirty stockings she wore underneath. 

Wilson thought she was heartrendingly beautiful. 

“What are you staring at?” She said, gruffly.

“O-oh” he coughed, dryly, caught off-guard by her brusqueness, “I’m sorry...” 

So, Wickerbottom had been right after all, at least that there were other people here. That brought the count up to seven, eight if you counted Maxwell, who was barely human anymore by his own admission. 

He took in their surroundings. Rocky biome. A glowing pile of cinders between them; what’s left of a campfire she presumably lit. His backpack, propped up against a nearby rock. 

He points to it, wheezing slightly. “Would you..?”

She obliges, not taking her eyes off of him. 

Slowly, excruciatingly, Wilson pulls himself up into a sitting position. Rummaging through the backpack, he pulls out a poultice and some bandages. Gingerly, he brings two fingers to his temple and presses against his oily, blistered skin, cringing. “How bad is it?” 

It’s a rhetorical question (Wilson is in the habit of talking to himself), but the woman produces an answer. “Bad.”

“How bad?” 

“Looks like a second degree burn, at least.” 

She looks him over for a moment. “And you’re missing some hair.” She added, puckishly. 

He was punished with a wave of pain for the way his hand flew to his scalp, feeling for a bald patch, but he couldn’t stop himself in time. “ _Great_. Just… just great!” 

Irritably he applied the bandages, slopping them over his face so that honey flew every which way. 

She sat across the embers, watching him intently, an unpleasant expression on her face. It unnerved him. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Yeah. I’m waiting for a ‘thank you’ for saving your sorry butt.” 

Wilson gawked, cursing internally. Now the situation was clear before him! She had pulled him out of the path of destruction, even watched over him until dawn, at great personal risk to herself, and all he’d done in turn was ogle her and complain! The poor girl. 

“Oh! Oh I-” Wilson’s voice cracked pitifully, “I’m sorry, I’m not usually so rude…Thank you. Thank you, for saving my life.”

Holding the bandages in place with one sticky hand, he extended the other from his seated position. “Wilson P. Higgsbury: Gentlemen Scientist. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss..?”

She stared at it for an uncomfortable length of time before reluctantly returning the handshake. “Willow.” 

Holding her digits in his hand, he awkwardly awaited a last name that never came. He released her when they were both sufficiently distressed by the prolonged contact. 

Wilson cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’re not hurt, I hope?” 

Willow shook her head. 

“That’s good!” Wilson said, “that was quite an aggressive forest fire. I might have outran it, if- uh...” 

He paused to examine his ankle. It was still quite tender from the unplanned exertion. He would need a makeshift crutch to get himself back to camp. It would be an agonizing walk...“Well, I’m lucky to have run into you, anyhow.” 

“Yeah…sure.” Willow averted her gaze. “Don’t mention it.” 

Wilson secured the bandages in place with a strip of silk, careful not to make the wrappings too tight as to chafe. His face stung, but he felt a bit better knowing the antibacterial honey was doing its job. 

Onto the matter of getting back to camp. He sifted through his supplies, and to his dismay found no twigs capable of bearing his weight. A tree branch may suffice, if only he could find the strength to stay on his foot long enough to swing an axe. 

He scanned the horizon for a suitable birch, only to realize the extent of the damage from last night’s blaze. The inferno had raged on around their sanctuary of rock. The soil was pitch black, most of the trees from the forest to the west and the meadow were decimated. Foliage gone. Boulders scorched in the patterns of moss they had once harbored. All of the ash still hung near ethereal in the air, illuminated by dawns’ light; an aide-memoire of the fire’s destruction. 

What had even started this fire? It couldn’t have been Maxwell this time, the old man was on the other side of the island. Had smoldering come early? That really wasn’t good. 

“We must get back to camp urgently.” He said to himself, pulling his axe out of his backpack and making incremental motions to stand.

“Who’s ‘We’?” 

Wilson was taken aback by her reaction. “There are others here. People. Not just talking beasts.” 

She looked at him somewhat contemptuously, and he wasn’t sure what else to say, except: “People should stick together.”

“You consider Maxwell ‘People’?” 

Not entirely, no. “Is that what this is about? Look, it wasn’t- uh...” 

Actually, in truth, it sort of _had_ been his idea to team up with Maxwell, if only begrudgingly. Though the others hadn’t outright refused to have anything to do with him, per say. There had been resistance here and there, like when Wigfrid threatened to “Bring the wrath of the gods down upon him” (Wilson would have liked to watch that, but Wickerbottom stepped in before Maxwell could really get what was coming to him). 

Ultimately, they had relented. Wilson wasn’t sure why, and that went doubly for himself. Maybe he still pitied Maxwell a little, but that didn’t make him an honest man, nor a pleasant campmate.

Then again, Wilson had been the one foolish enough to trust Maxwell twice, so maybe he deserved to be the beleaguered one. The others could do as they pleased, and so far none of them had decided survival in isolation was preferable to breaking bread with the Constant’s former king.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He said. “We have food and shelter. Safety in numbers. Maxwell’s doing his part, I suppose.” 

Willow crossed her arms. “I’m not gonna hang around with people who kiss up to Maxwell.”

“Who’s kissing up?” Wilson protested, “That miserable pensioner would’ve died out here without my help!” 

“What are you talking about? Maxwell’s the reason I’m in this mess!”

“Yeah, you and me both. It’s different now, he’s…” 

Now he’s defending Maxwell? Yeesh, make your mind up, Higgsbury. 

“...It’s a long story. But he’s at the mercy of the world he created, now. Harmless.” Like a toothless old cur. 

Willow squinted suspiciously. “Why help him, then? Just let him die.”

That was a damn good question. “And be just as bad as he is? Where’s your moral compass, woman?” 

Now he’s accusing her (the person who saved his life) of lacking virtues! She shouldn’t have bothered saving such an ass.

“I left it in my other pants, smart guy! Back in the world I came from, thanks to that jerk!” she snapped.

Wilson didn’t have a rebuttal. 

“Look” she said, “Do whatever you want. Be Maxwell’s chump. But don’t try to take me down with you.” 

She stood, wiping the ash from her clothing. “And for the record, the self-righteousness isn’t gonna win you any points out here.”

Wilson looked on in incredulity. “Yes, let’s just dispense with our principles because it’s convenient! I suppose we might as well bash each others’ heads in, like hidebound cavemen. Who’s here to stop us?” 

“Yeah.” She looked him up and down, sniggering, “because you’re _totally_ capable of bashing my brains out, in your condition.”

“I can swing an axe just fine.” He took it into his hands, sort of half-heartedly, before limping away to the treeline, which he found to be an ordeal. 

He could feel her eyes on him as he swung, weakly, at a nearby tree. Wilson balanced himself carefully on his good foot, aiming to take the nearest branch off with a few well placed swings. 

He was sweating profusely when the branch finally gave and fell to the ground. He tested it, tucking the crook of it under his right arm and pushing down. It was charred a little, but it would hold. 

Willow was leaning against a boulder, watching tepidly. She had pulled something out of her pocket, something fibrous and tough. She chewed on it, open-mouthed, like an uncouth sailor with a plug of tobacco. 

“I don’t know which direction my camp is.” Wilson said, hobbling back to his backpack.

“I do.” Willow raised the snack to her mouth again and ripped off another piece, gnawing to soften it. 

Wilson was about to make a snarky comment about it not being very polite to chew with one's mouth open, but it died on his lips when he realized what she was eating. 

“I had some jerky just like that.” he said. “A whole stack of it.”

“Congratulations.” 

He glared unwaveringly at her until she had swallowed what she had in her mouth, sighing.

“I was hungry, so I helped myself.” Willow said defensively. She shoved the rest of the jerky in her skirt pocket and shrugged. “It's fine now, since I saved you and all, right?”

Wilson frowned.

“Well jeez, I can’t give them back now!” 

He noted her tired eyes and slim frame. Her wrists were bony, cheeks sunken slightly, and she was pale, as though sick.

“We would have shared, you know.” Wilson’s expression softened. “If you’d asked.” 

Willow seemed remorseful, if a little irritated, cheeks flushed pink. “Sorry…”

“Apology accepted, Ms. Willow.” 

Willow looked dubious. “That’s it? One little apology and you’re over it?” 

‘Over it’ wasn’t the way he’d put it. Wilson might opt instead for ‘contrite’, but she didn’t need pity from the man she’d just dragged out of a forest fire. “I’m sure you had your reasons. And it’s unbecoming of a gentleman to hold aimless grudges.” 

Especially against a desperate, half-starved woman.

Willow chuckled. “A gentleman, huh?” 

“Yes. And one who doesn’t intend to shirk his principles, whether in the presence of others or not.”

“Does that extend to Maxwell?”

“I said _aimless_ grudges.”

“What good does staying mad at him do, if he’s ‘harmless’?” She looked amused. Must enjoy being contrarian, Wilson thought.

“It makes me feel better.” 

A beat of silence, then Willow laughed. A lilting, fluttery sound... When was the last time he’d heard a woman laugh like that? 

Wilson shrugged on his backpack, feeling rather homesick. “You’re sure you won’t reconsider joining us?”

“...You still want me in your camp?” Willow stared in disbelief. “I stole from you.”

Wilson gave a little smile. “As long as Maxwell is around, there’s no real barrier to entry, I suppose.”

His desire to see her on the mend again was a selfish one, he admitted to himself. They most certainly were not “even”, as far as he was concerned, as she didn’t realize the full scope of her good deed. In fact, Willow was bizarrely nonchalant about the whole thing, as if she didn’t care that the fire could have very well killed her. 

Perhaps she didn’t care, he pondered. She wouldn’t be the only person on the island with seemingly no regard for their own safety... 

She looked pensive for a while, then pointed in a northeasterly direction. “Go that way, it’s not too far. Watch out for spiders, if there are any left. I don’t think there are.” 

“Oh.” He couldn’t seem to hide the disappointment in his voice. Well, he shouldn’t be all that surprised. “Alright. I’ll do that...” 

He turned to leave, slowly, in hopes she would change her mind. She showed no such inclination. “I’ll see you around, perhaps?”

“Yeah, sure.” She wouldn’t look at him. “Take it easy.”

“Of course…”

And so Wilson hobbled away, reluctantly. When he was a decent ways away he looked back at the boorish woman who’d saved his bacon.

The sun was high in the morning sky now, but she was tending to the embers again... Pulling what looked like a lighter out of her pocket, she rekindled the dying fire and watched as a tuft of grass she tossed in fizzled and popped, with an… odd expression. 

He had a sneaking suspicion that he hadn’t seen the last of her.

* * *

“Wigfrid! Behind you!”

The Viking turned just in time with her spear to nail a snarling, frothing hound right in its gaping maw. It twitched feverishly on her weapon before crumpling to the ground, a heap of fur and slobber and bloody bile. 

Wilson didn’t recoil at the sight like he’d done so many times before. A time when he’d first arrived at this wretched place... Hadn’t he had an affinity for dogs, once? 

The wave was over, it seemed. The full-moon night was calm once again, save for the hurrahing of the strongman and the actress, and his own exhausted panting. 

“Is everyone all right?” Ms. Wickerbottom stepped out from the brush, Wendy and Wes following behind in their clattering logsuits. 

“Right as rain.” Wilson said. He was sweating under his football helmet. The cool(er) summer night air was a great clemency on his scalp as he pulled it off.

“Mighty Wolfgang and strong lady punch all bad doggies to death!” Wolfgang bellowed. “Tiny science man help, too.”

“Verily!” Wigfrid overturned the body of a hound, tongue sloping almost comically out of its mouth. “This beast was your kill, was it not, Alchemist?” 

“Ah- Indeed…” All of one hound out of the entire pack. Bully for him. 

He started counting bodies. One, two, three, four dead hounds on Wigfrid and Wolfgang’s end of the field, collectively. A fifth that he stood over now, a sharp piece of flint at the ready. 

As he skinned it, he pondered. Five hounds wasn’t a lot of hounds, considering. None of them were fire hounds, either, which this well into summer was not to be expected. Wilson supposed they were lucky. _Hoped_ that’s what it was; luck, and not The Constant lulling them into a false sense of security, only to wind its arm back to suckerpunch them. It had a habit of doing that. 

When he’d finished his skinning, he tossed the hide away (hound fur made for poor bedrolls), then set into butchering. Wickerbottom, then Wigfrid (who had finished field-dressing her hounds in record time) offered to give him a hand which he politely declined. If it were up to him he wouldn’t bother with such work beyond pulling out their teeth, but Wigfrid had requested the meat specifically. Wilson could not imagine what she’d want it for, as it was acrid and not good for much besides bait. Maybe he didn’t want to know. 

Wilson suddenly felt as though he were being watched. 

“Hello, Maxwell.” he said curtly. “Nice of you to show up when the hard work’s nearly finished.” 

Maxwell shifted behind him, no doubt sneering. “Such barbarity is beneath me.” 

“How could I forget?” Wilson deadpanned. 

His face (mostly healed, though a still painful shade of pink) itched terribly. To scratch would mean wiping the sour blue blood on his trousers, so he resisted the urge. 

“No gems in there?” 

“What do you think?” Wilson popped the joint of a hound haunch and slashed through the leg. He didn’t bother picking off the stray hairs before shoving it into his pack. 

“And that’s not concerning to you, Higgsbury?” 

“I find it concerning you thought it was a funny joke.” Shoving gems into monsters to make them explode was hardly funny when you’re on the receiving end. 

“I regret telling you that.” 

Wilson had a few regrets himself that he refrained from voicing for the sake of diplomacy. 

Maxwell cleared his throat. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you, but there was a startling lack of hounds in this wave.”

“Oh, it has. Did fifteen minutes ago. Let me know when you’ve caught up.” 

Maxwell harrumphed. “There ought to be more.”

“Disappointed we lived, are you?”

“Something’s off.” 

“Well, we’re still standing.” Wilson grabbed the remnants of the carcass by the tail and began to drag it to the pile that Wolfgang and Wigfrid had started. 

Maxwell trailed along. “I’m trying to warn you here, pal. With Charlie at the throne you don’t know what to expect.” 

“And you do?” Wilson deposited the corpse on the pile and paused to clean his hands, sullying his handkerchief with smears of blue blood. It would be a pain to wash out later, but he knew it offended Maxwell’s sensibilities, so it would be worth it. Especially if the old sinner took the hint.

Maxwell did not take the hint. “Moreso than you, at any rate.” 

Wilson’s retort was cut off by a distant, shrill sound echoing through the wilderness. His blood ran cold.

“Did you hear that?” His head whipped about. Nobody was in the clearing but the two of them. “What was that?”

“You’re the one who’s fifteen minutes ahead, scientist, you tell me.” 

“Shut _up_ , will you?” 

Wilson strained to hear it again. When the piercing scream resounds for a second time he’s off running, spear in hand towards it. He barely registers Maxwell calling after him as he valts over a log and sprints through the underbrush. 

More than once he stops, listening for the sounds of peril with his chest heaving. He’d be in no condition to fight by the time he got there at the rate he was going. Still, he pressed on, and eventually he came upon the scene. 

Wilson looked down into a dry gully and spotted three hounds, snuffling and snarling. They were circling a twiggy tree in which a familiar face was taking refuge. 

The branch Willow was on barely held her weight, and very nearly could not keep her out of reach of the drooling jaws beneath her. She trembled, eyes wide and watching the hounds below. She flinched as one leapt into the air in an attempt to reach her, jaws closing upon nothing with an audible snap. 

Before Wilson could stop and think rationally, he’d already lobbed a stone at one of the beasts. It hit one square in the snout, and it whined in surprise before turning its head up at him, sufficiently enraged. The others took notice of the easier meal, and soon all three were charging at him. The first reached the lip of the gully and caught a mouthful of flint, stumbling backwards. Wilson raised his spear again and brought another blow down on the next hound, wounding but not killing it. He choked up on the handle of the weapon and winced as he heard a crack. When he swung again at the third, the spear broke off in his hand. He started to run, the hounds snapping at his heels. 

Camp. He needed to lure them back to camp. But they were closing in, close enough that Wilson could smell their monstrous miasma; and he was nearly out of steam. The others were too far away, on the other side of the biome. He wouldn’t make it.

Just as he’d resigned to his fate to be torn to pieces by dogs (again), he reached a small clearing and came face to face with the strongman, who was bracing for impact.

“Tiny man! This way!”

He didn’t have to ask Wilson twice. 

Wilson dashed past him with his last ounce of strength, turning to watch Wolfgang lunge, unarmed, at the nearest hound. His hands caught the brute mid-chomp, with little regard for the way the monsters’ fangs surely tore into the flesh of his palms and fingers. Wilson watched with astonishment as Wolfgang’s bulging arm muscles strained and quivered, prying open the mouth of the beast with a superhuman display of force. 

He didn’t have much time to gawk as the other two hounds were advancing fast. Wigfrid’s battle cry echoed through the clearing and she intercepted one valorously, somehow finding great fulfillment in offering heroic quips to a smelly beast that wanted nothing more than to eat her innards. 

Wilson blinked and missed the blowdart that whizzed past them and downed the third, succinctly and without ceremony. It tumbled forward and landed belly up before combusting, bathing the clearing in an orange glow that luminated Wigfrid and Wolfgang’s still fighting silhouettes. 

“Really, you two,” Wickerbottom had appeared beside him, tucking away a papyrus reed, “there’s hardly a need for such theatrics.” 

Eventually the hounds were dead. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the bodies burn. He and Willow were safe now. 

Wait, Willow!

“Mr. Higgsbury?” Wickerbottom looked up from examining the teeth marks on Wolfgang’s mitts. “Where are you going?”

“Follow me!”

He shot ahead with a newfound motivation, though the burning in his lungs was agony. 

Some minutes later he reached the gully again, peering down to find Willow on the ground, at the foot of the tree with her legs tucked under her. The branch she’d been perched on had snapped. She was breathing hard. 

He tried (and failed) to smoothly slide down the side of the gully, slipping and landing hard on his rear. Willow looked up, startled. 

“Are you alright?” Wilson said as he found his footing again. 

Willow gazed up at him with a pained expression, her eyes enormous. “You’re okay?” 

Had she not expected him to be okay?

“The hounds are taken care of.” He replied simply. 

“Good… That’s-” She winced as she tried to stand, bracing herself against the tree trunk. 

There was a nasty gash on her calf, still oozing slightly coagulated blood through the mesh of her stockings. 

“Ms. Willow! Your leg-” 

“One of the jerks got me on the way up the tree.” 

“It looks bad…”

She waved him off. “It’s fine.” 

“It most certainly is _not_.” 

Wilson and Willow turned. Wickerbottom was lowering herself into the gully. She already had a mortar and pestle in one hand, silken bandages in the other. “Pardon my impertinence, I’m not typically one to dispense with formalities, but that really must be attended to right away.” 

She kneeled and pulled out the salve ingredients, then started to mix it, grinding the ash and gland secretions into a paste. Willow watched her with great trepidation. “I don’t need it.”

“Nonsense.” Wickerbottom added some water to the paste from her canteen to thin the mixture. “The hound mouth is a cesspool. It will surely become infected if it is not properly cleaned.” 

“I mean I don’t need your help.” 

“Don’t be silly.” A phrase with the potential to be either dismissive or comforting, coming from Ms. Wickerbottom, seemed somehow to come off as both. 

Another new voice sounded from the lip of the gully. “Strong brain lady!” 

Wolfgang and Wigfrid peered down at them, watching the scene unfold with great interest. “Mighty hands are still needing medicine.” 

“I’ve plenty for the both of you.” Wickerbottom seemed finished mixing the salve now. She applied it to the silk strips, then readied herself to dress Willow’s wound. 

Willow bristled at her approach. “Don’t touch me.” 

Wilson grimaced. You don’t talk like that to Wickerbottom unless you want a greatly humbling scolding. 

But to his eternal surprise, Wickerbottom softened, shifting her comportment from that of a grizzled field nurse to something altogether rather… motherly. 

“There’s no reason to be frightened, my dear. I assure you, we’re quite human, and we only want to help you.” 

Willow blinked, looking from Wilson back to Wickerbottom. “Why?”

“Why help me?” Wilson interjected. “I do believe, Ms. Willow, that this would make us even, wouldn’t it?” 

“No _Mr. Gentleman_ , it wouldn’t. A life for a life is even.” She shifted her weight, seeming to test her injured leg. It looked horrifically painful. “You don’t need to use up your supplies on me.” 

“Good deeds are not conditional, Ms...Willow, was it?” Wickerbottom looked to Wilson and adjusted her glasses with her free hand, seeming a touch bemused at the realization that they had once met already, but she said nothing. “We fear for your health and safety, it’s common decency.” 

What an odd thing to need to explain… 

“Please,” she said, insistent yet calm, “let us help you.”

Willow had a look of apprehension about her. She hesitated before eventually allowing Wickerbottom to examine her leg. The old woman assisted in rolling down what remained of the stocking, looking empathetic as Willow cringed, then she set aside the prepped salve and reached for her canteen again. Willow looked perturbed and jerked her leg back violently as Wickerbottom started to flush the wound.

Wickerbottom looked perplexed. “It’s only water, dear.” 

Willow had a faraway look. 

“Mr. Higgsbury,” Wickerbottom said, “there is another gland in my rucksack. Would you kindly assist Mr. Wolfgang with his hands while I tend to this?” 

“Oh, yes uh-” Wilson cleared his throat, “Of course.” 

He cleaned Wolfgang’s hands, stealing glances at Willow occasionally. She hissed when the salve was applied, and Wickerbottom tutted. 

Wigfrid trotted up to Willow, grinning. “That will scar gloriously!” She gestured with the point of her spear at the ragged flesh of Willow’s calf, which he doubted the woman appreciated. “The etching of an epic tale in progress!” 

Willow scrutinized her, looking utterly nonplussed. He recalled having a similar reaction to meeting the ‘Shield-Maiden’ of Asgard. “Some tale. I got my butt handed to me.” The exchange seemed to at least distract her from the burning of the antiseptic. 

Oh, she had noticed he was staring at her. Joy. 

“If it wasn’t for fluffy over there I would have been dog food.” The corner of her mouth twitched up into a tiny smile. “Thanks, by the way.” 

Wilson felt himself blush. He finished dressing Wolfgang’s cuts. “Think nothing of it. It’s the least I could have done after the forest fire.” 

“Hm?” Wickerbottom looked up from her wrappings. “What’s this now?”  
  
“Er, Ms. Willow and I have met once before.”

“I suspected as such. You mean to say that she came to your aid when you were caught in the blaze?” Wickerbottom suddenly peered at him, looking quite stern. “Young man, I certainly hope you did not neglect to extend our hospitality to her after all she has done.” 

His hands came up defensively. “Of course I did!” 

“Quit talkin’ about it.” Willow frowned, arms crossed. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Nay!” Wigfrid seemed shocked by Willow’s blasé attitude. Join the club. “Twas valiant!” The viking’s eyes shone with an admiration that Wilson had rarely seen. “Within thine chest beats a noble heart.” 

“Big fire is no good!” Wolfgang curled his fists together, paying little heed to Wilson’s protests about the cuts reopening. “Tiny lady very brave!” 

For some reason Willow looked deeply, _profoundly_ uncomfortable, and it got the scientists’ attention. 

Before he could comment on it, Wickerbottom had tightened the last of Willow’s bandages and interrupted his train of thought. “That gash is rather deep my dear, the bandages will need to be replaced more than once before it’s healed completely.” 

“Uh- Thanks.” Willow said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“I don’t suggest you attempt to walk on that for the time being. Not to worry,” she said, as Willow pulled a face, “Our lodgings are not far. We will assist you.” 

“Uh-”

“Wolfgang will carry tiny lady on mighty shoulders!” Wolfgang flexed, his unitard stretching over his pectorals. 

“Um-”

“A new ally!” Wigfrid clasped a hand on Willow’s narrow shoulders, “Come! We shall meat-feast into the early hours of the morning!”

“But-!”

“‘But’ nothing, young lady.” Wickerbottom had the mein of disgruntled school teacher, all but wagging her finger disapprovingly, “It would be unconscionable to leave you alone in your state.”

Willow’s eyes darted from Wickerbottom, then Wolfgang and Wigfrid who were beaming, and finally to him. 

“I think you’d better do as she says.” He said, attempting to mollify her. “Ms. Wickerbottom doesn’t take no for an answer, I’m afraid.” 

Willow pouted. The others watched her, curious and expectant. 

“Fine.” 

Wolfgang’s thunderous, manic laughter nearly drowned out her squeals of surprise as he hoisted her onto his shoulder with ease in one fluid scoop. “Geez, you were serious?! Leggo!” 

“Do be careful, Wolfgang.” Wickerbottom chidded. 

“HA! Is nothing! Tiny lady is like little mouse.” 

“I don’t think that’s what she meant…” Wilson said. 

Willow didn’t continue to protest, but she looked rather irritable after being tossed about like a ragdoll, which Wilson couldn’t exactly blame her for. They followed the strongman out of the gully like a row of ducklings.

“We’ll need to set you up with a bedroll.” Wickerbottom said. “Have we enough straw?” 

“She can have my roll,” Wilson couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, “ah- in the meantime, that is.” 

“Wow, that’s-” Willow trailed off, “that’s really not necessary.” 

“Well, er- I’m sure you could borrow someone else's', too. Or not have to borrow at all! Perhaps we have plenty of straw…” He was yammering.

Willow was looking at him strangely. 

Maybe he would just not talk anymore for the rest of the walk...

* * *

They’d had plenty of straw. Wilson almost volunteered to weave the bedroll, but he didn’t want to make Willow uncomfortable again. Something that he apparently did without even trying. Later that night, as Wilson sat across the empty fire pit (his back propped up against a cool thermal stone), taking bites out of a kebab, she was giving him the same look. 

“Yes?” 

“What’s your deal?”

Wilson blinked. “Pardon?”

“You didn’t tell them I took your stuff.” 

Oh. “And?”

“Aaaaand that seems kinda weird.” She squinted at him. “What’s your game?”

“I haven’t any idea what you mean, Ms. Willow.” He pulled another cube of beefalo meat off the skewer and popped it into his mouth. 

“I mean it’s weird that you didn’t tell the people you camp with about it, and that you didn’t mention it to them when they decided I should stay here.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s water under the bridge.” 

She was glaring.

“Honest!” He caught himself before he got too loud. The others were still either asleep or out, “I’m not miffed about the jerky anymore. It just isn’t anyone else’s business.”

“How is it not their business?” She said, “They live here and they probably wouldn’t want to help me out if they knew.” Willow jolted up in her bedroll, straw crinkling loudly. She looked at him sourly. “And I don’t think you’d keep it a secret if you didn’t want something from me...”

Wilson sputtered. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating but-” Somebody stirred in their tent. He waited for them to settle. “You can go at any time. We’re not holding you hostage.” 

He set into his kebab again, scowling. The nerve! What did she take him for?

Willow was looking at the endothermic pit. He thought she was just trying not to look at him, but then she said: “Can I light the fire?” 

Wilson stopped chewing. “Are you hot?” 

Willow shrugged noncommittally. 

“We try to conserve our fuel on full moons.” 

“That’s no fun…” 

What? 

“No,” Wilson said pointedly, “I suppose survival isn’t all that fun.” 

He was finished with his food, now. He broke the skewer into pieces absentmindedly. 

“Hey, uh…”

He looked up from his trifling. Willow’s head was resting in her hands, her elbows propped up on her knees. She looked as though she was deliberating, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. “I didn’t expect you to remember my name. I can’t remember yours…” 

Her pale eyes were glistening. He felt less irked then he probably should have that she’d forgotten his name. “Wilson Higgsbury.”

“Do I need to call you Higgsbury?”

“Er- Actually...” he rubbed the back of his neck, “Actually I’d rather you didn’t. Wilson is fine.” 

He didn’t say anything so cliche as ‘Please, please; Mr. Higgsbury is my father’, even though it was true, and perfectly reasonable to say. Mr. Higgsbury, dear old dad, who Wilson hadn’t spoken to in years. Whom he’d probably never see again, Constant or no Constant…

“Just call me Willow, then.” She started to draw lines in the dirt with her fingertip. 

It dawned on Wilson suddenly that she could have found the honorific ingratiating, suspiciously so, and that she certainly found it unnecessary given the circumstances. He hadn’t thought to ask whether she found it annoying or not, and had just defaulted to his manners. He also hadn’t thought to ask what her situation was before they’d all bundled her off to camp. Maybe she’d been around a while and had her own camp, as he had. Maybe she’d just arrived here and was still adjusting. It hasn’t been going well for her, clearly. She’d stolen food.

Willow’s eyes were half-lidded and unfocused. Her free hand picked at the corner of the bandages on her leg nervously. 

“It’s a deal then, Willow.” Wilson attempted a comforting smile.

She gave a small nod, then was overtaken by a yawn. 

“Don’t ah..” Wilson found the yawning contagious. “Don’t let me keep you up. You must be exhausted.” 

“My leg hurts.” 

“Oh. Hang on…”

Wilson stood, tossing away the skewer into the pit. He opened up a chest and took out a blue cap. 

“Ugh… those are nasty.” She said. 

“It’ll help with the pain. My arms are sore, come to think of it...” He tore the raw, spongy mushroom into bite-sized pieces, then popped one into his mouth. It was vile, but the relief was nearly instantaneous. 

He offered her some. She took one hesitantly. “How’d you figure out these were good to eat?”

“Trial and error.” A lot of trial and error. Painful, humiliating trial and error… “They’re good in moderation, anyhow. I’m not in the habit of using myself as a test subject but given the circumstances I don’t have many other options.”

Recognition flashed on her face. “Oh. That’s right. You said you’re a scientist or whatever.” 

Oh! He had mentioned that, hadn’t he? 

He brightened. “Yes! I’m an independent researcher and inventor. I used to perform all kinds of experiments that didn’t involve eating strange things in the forest.” 

“Like what?”

“I’m a chemist, primarily… uh…” He didn’t actually have any ongoing projects he could talk about. That was how he’d ended up here. “I did chemical experiments and… such.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

Willow didn’t give any indication that she was unconvinced, or that she was particularly interested in hearing more. Phew!

“What about you?” Wilson said, “What did you do before all this?” 

“Do?” Willow looked down at her feet.

“If you want to talk about it, that is.” Wilson amended quickly. 

“Don’t really wanna talk about it.” She said.

She must miss home dreadfully! He wouldn’t pry.

“Quite alright, I understand.” Wilson thought about how much he missed hot coffee, the armchair in the attic, and his insides not being on his outsides at any given moment.

Willow finished the mushroom, looking a mite less dour than before. She yawned again and started to lay back into her bedroll. 

“Are you going to sleep, then?” He asked.

“Yeah.” She turned over, wrapping the straw bedding around herself tightly. 

“Oh. Goodnight, then.” That was that, he supposed. 

There were still a few hours left until sunrise, when Wickerbottom would return from her insomniatic scouting to give him his marching orders, but it wouldn’t be too much longer before the sticky summer heat of the early morning made sleep impossible. He tucked his thermal stone into the pit (it was only ambient temperature now) and started walking to his tent. 

“Hey, Wilson.”

Willow was looking up at him.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.” 

Wilson blinked. “For the mushroom?” 

“No.” She mumbled, “For not saying anything. I don’t know why you did it but…” Her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Thanks.” 

He gave a small smile. “Anytime.” 

She turned over, sighing. Wilson opened the flap of his tent and entered it. 


	2. You Can’t Tuna Fish! (But You Can Teach Her English)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wurt is cool. Here's a Wurt chapter. It's short and awful. Enjoy

Morning was silent as the grave in the swamp. Silent but for the deepest rumbling of tentacles turning over in their sleep. Wurt tiptoed around them, her fun new thing clutched to her chest, looking like the catcoon who’d swallowed the canary. 

She needed to be quick. Before long it would be dusk, and the others would find her missing. And they would be mad and yell at her!

And when they found out where she’d been, they’d be even madder.

She knew she should stay away from the skinny-pigs, and she wouldn’t get too close! She just wanted to see if they had any more of these… uh, whatever these things were. 

Wurt flipped through it as she strolled along, careful not to get any mud on the pretty pictures. Pretty, pretty reed-leaf paintings! She’d never seen anything like it before; had never thought of such a thing. 

A clawed finger traced over them (gently this time, so she wouldn’t rip them again). There were funny symbols and junk along the bottom of each drawing. They reminded her a bit of her warpaint, but she couldn’t figure out what they were for, or if they even had a purpose. Maybe they were just for decoration; even if she thought they were ugly, maybe the skinny-pigs liked them. 

Wurt noticed a few scales on the paintings and she brushed them away, frowning. She was shedding more than usual in the daytime heat. Curiosity urged her onward. 

Their home wasn’t far, just a few biomes over. This was odd to her, as these creatures had always seemed a bit wary of her swamp home (which was just as well, they were annoying from what she had seen). There must be something interesting nearby.

None of them seemed to be around. Perfect.

Wurt crept into camp, a wide clearing with some plain looking-structures, some of wood, others of cloth. Not impressive to most, but Mermfolk like herself did not value flashy lodgings, so she found it quite respectable. Less so was the smell wafting through the air, which she likened to rotting flesh...

There was a pot hanging over a bed of glowing coals. She wouldn’t open it. 

Eventually, she saw it. A lean-to, stacked high with piles and piles of clean reed-paper, and rows of finished skinny-pig picture things! 

Vibrating with excitement, Wurt clambered inside and started to take them off their shelves, before she realized, dejectedly, that many of them lacked any paintings in favor of those indecipherable symbols. The ones that did had only pictures of things she had seen before, like tentacles and ravens, which were boring! Where was the fun stuff?

The sound of a throat clearing shattered Wurt’s concentration and she jumped. A skinny-pig was at the mouth of the lean-to, looking stony. 

Wurt wasn’t scared though, not one bit!

It looked hostile when it noticed the things strewn about, its scowl aggravated by the wrinkles around its maw.

Wurt could fight it. There was only one. She raised her little fists and trembled, waiting for it to charge. 

It didn’t attack. Instead it watched her. Slowly, the anger seemed to dissipate, and confusion replaced it. 

And then it asked her something, or at least, she _thought_ it had. 

It was an odd language, guttural and sharp, not unlike that of the pigfolk (ugh). The skinny-pigs at least had better volume control, though the words still broke the tense silence to such that Wurt almost screamed in surprise. 

She didn’t though, because she was brave! 

It spoke again and Wurt shook her head to indicate that she didn’t understand. She grabbed one of the objects, the one with the prettiest pictures, without daring to break eye contact with the sort-of-pig. 

Maybe she’d be able to slip past it, if she was quick enough?

Suddenly its gaze softened, and it tilted its head at her, smiling, like it was pleasantly surprised. It picked up another thing, a boring one, pointing at it eagerly, and then to her. Was it trying to communicate with her?

Wurt flipped through the one in her claws, and pointed at the paintings, first one, then the next, and the next, as if to say: “Yes, strange creature, I do enjoy these”.

The not-really-but-kinda-similar-pig smiled warmly. It stooped down to Wurt’s level and held up the object, speaking to her again in a tone that was nurturing, and distinctly feminine. 

“Book.” It (she?) pointed at the object in its hands, then repeated itself, flipping through the pages. 

Wurt looked down at the thing in her claws. The ‘Book’. 

“Book?” She replied, and the not-pig looked very pleased. 

\--

Wurt wasn’t sure when she finally realized she was taking language lessons, but by the time she had accepted it she had mastered the fundamentals! 

Kinda. 

She was catching phrases here and there of passing conversations, not enough to get acquainted with the others, but enough to feel like she had an idea of what was going on. She could understand more than she could say, and could say more than she could read, which is to say… hardly anything. 

The Wicker-lady was patient. 

That wasn’t her name. Her actual name was too hard for her to say, but the Wicker-lady realized pretty timely that there was some Mermfolk-to-Unpig speech delay, so she put up with it. 

Ah, she needed to think of a different thing to call them. They weren’t very attractive, though certainly not as ugly as pigfolk, and others seemed to resemble more familiar things, like ironfolk or spiderfolk, so the moniker didn’t seem very apt anymore. They were pretty nice to her too (mostly), so it seemed mean to keep comparing them to pigs. 

Maybe she’d call them the Nosies, since they seemed fond of asking questions and trying to get her to do weird things, like eat the yucky things they ate (she had discovered the hard way that “Pierogis” were only a meat delivery system. Blegh!). One in particular she had dubbed the Funny-hair man, on account of his ridiculous looking mane, was exceptionally annoying with his requests. That was the day Wicker-lady taught her the word “no”, which was her favorite word so far. (Note: there was apparently great nuance between “no” and “no thank you”, especially when you shout them, but she hadn’t quite grasped the distinction yet). 

“Nosies” was still kinda mean... Especially since Wicker-lady trusted her enough to take the picture books home with her at the end of each day, as long as she brought it back to camp when she was finished, and she didn't get any mud on them, which is more difficult than one might think. “Borrowing”, she called it. Interesting system! Though she would prefer to keep the books forever, and get as much mud on them as she deemed necessary. 

Everything they did was reciprocal like this, except when it wasn’t, which was confusing. For example, the “Science Machine” belonged to everyone, and the “Library” belonged to everyone (though Wicker-lady seemed to be in charge of it). Wurt liked this at first, but then made the mistake of assuming it applied to everything.

The Fire-lady got very angry at her when she saw Wurt playing with the little soft toy she’d left by the fire pit. Wicker-lady was there to diffuse the situation, luckily, and she explained to Wurt that she needed to ask first before she “borrowed” things. That was when she learned how to say “Sorry”. 

Mermfolk never apologized, but she did it anyway...

She was surprised, later, by Fire-lady’s tenderness when she offered the toy as a gesture of goodwill.

“Can have?” Wurt looked up at her, eyes doey. 

“Borrow.” Fire-lady said, only a little shortly. 

Wurt knew what to say next without Wicker-lady reminding her. “Thank you!”

She looked to the woman for approval and was rewarded with a pat on the head by a soft, scale-less hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted this to be longer but i also wanted it to be Done Already 
> 
> writing is hard now. doing anything is hard now


	3. Secrets

“So uh… whatcha doing with those, eh?”

The young woman (Willow her name was, he thought), was taking the coals out from underneath the crockpot. She looked up at him, dumping a shovelful into a waiting bucket. “Miss Wickerbottom said I could have them for charcoal.”

The coals were still smoldering. 

_Would it kill her to wait?_ Lucy tutted.

“Who knows?” said Woodie. 

“Who knows what?” 

“Uh… nothing. Thinkin’ out loud is all.”

Willow squinted at him, then shrugged and resumed shoveling. Woodie watched her fill her bucket up to the top with mild curiosity. 

He attempted some small talk. “Lotta coals, there.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Nothin’.” Woodie thought about offering to carry the bucket for her. It looked heavy, but Willow didn’t seem to mind.

She looked at him, swaying the bucket at her side. “Wickerbottom said I could have them, ya know.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not taking too many!”

“Alright.” 

_Woodie, you’re bothering her._

Oh.

“I’ll see you around then, eh?”

Willow side-eyed him. “Yeah, sure.” 

She left camp in a hurry. 

“She’s acting kinda strange, don’tcha think Luce?”

 _Well, you_ were _staring at her._

Woodie stared at lots of things. “So?” 

_I swear, you’re getting denser in your old age. Folks don’t like it when you stare._

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it…” Woodie was content most of the time to not speak unless spoken to. Content to not speak much at all really, except to Lucy. Just his luck to have to hunker down with campmates, but he might as well be neighborly, right? Offer to carry the little ladies’ bucket, right? 

_You didn’t offer to carry the bucket._

“I thought aboot it.” 

_Uh huh. Say… you’re not getting soft on her, are you?_

Woodie’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “Come on, Luce! She’s practically in diapers.”

Lucy giggled. _I’m only teasing!_

“Not funny… you know you’re the only gal for me.” He turned the axe over in his hands tenderly.

_Awwwww! Woodie, you always know what to say._

He smiled, then made his way over to one of the chests. 

“Still,” Woodie set Lucy down and combed through the chest, “I think she was acting funny.”

He frowned as he realized it didn’t have what he was looking for. “Rocks are supposed to be in this chest, right?” 

_I dunno. Whose turn was it to go mining?_

“I think the little guy.”

_Which one?_

“Pale and Scrawny.”

_The mime?_

“The other one.” The one that never stopped talking.

_He’s camping somewhere else, isn’t he? With Willow?_

“Yeah. Must’ve taken all the rocks with ‘em.”

_That’s selfish!_

“He probably just forgot.” For somebody who was supposed to be smart, he could be real scatterbrained. Anyhow, Woodie needed rocks. Wilson had his share of the rocks. 

* * *

Something was burning.

Woodie took in the scent. It was an easy smoke; the kind you get when coal ashes over and gives you heat good and steady. 

He looked up ahead and saw the Scientist’s camp. Willow was there, standing over a bed of glowing coals. 

She’d laid them out in a long and thin layer, then started to lay dry grass over the coals, blowing on them to set them alight. 

_What’s she doing?_

Willow paused, looking pleased with herself. 

Woodie felt oddly like a voyeur. Just as he was about to call out to her she did something that sent his jaw straight to the floor.

Willow stepped out of her heels and belly-flopped onto the bed of coals. 

_What the?!?!_

Woodie stood stock still, unable to speak. The flames lapped up around Willow’s body, burning bright and surely hot. 

Her eyes were half-lidded in bliss. Watching it felt… wrong.

“Hey!”

Willow’s eyes flew open. She whipped her head around and saw Woodie in the trees. 

She was on her feet in an instant. Woodie cringed a little when she put her bare hands on the coals to push herself up. 

“What are you doing here?!” She bellowed.

“I was looking for rocks!”

“Why didn’t you get them at basecamp?!”

“Wilson has them!”

_“Wilson isn’t here!!”_

_“I’m sorry!!”_ __  
  
**_Stop screaming!_ **

Woodie tried not to focus on the sizzling embers clinging to Willow’s skirt. She was looking at him with wild eyes. 

“Wasn’t… tryin’ to bother you.” He ran his hands along Lucy’s blade. 

_Easy, now…_

Willow wrapped her arms around herself. “How much of that did you see?”

“Er… most of it.” 

A heavy silence fell. What was Woodie supposed to say? 

“What were you doing?”

She gave him a hard look. Too soon to ask?

“Fire bath.” She said eventually, through gritted teeth.

_Fire...bath?_

“What for?” Woodie wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Same reason you take a bath, genius.” Willow gazed longingly at the coals. They weren’t burning as brightly now. “I wasn’t finished.”

Her clothes, hair, and everything else seemed unscathed. Her face and neck were covered in black soot, which she didn’t bother wiping off. 

_Who’s idea of a bath is that? She looks like a chimney sweep!_

“Don’t you want to take a real bath?” 

Willow scoffed. “What, with water? Gross.” 

Woodie didn’t know what to say. What _could_ he say? He was still processing the fact that Willow was apparently fireproof and hadn’t thought to mention it. 

Then again…

“You’re not gonna tell the others… are you?” Willow peered up at him, her face uncertain. 

What on earth would he tell them? He looked down at his feet, mulling it over.

His shadow stretched out along the ground: the outline of a very ordinary man. But Woodie knew what lay beneath. 

We’ve all got our secrets.

“It’s… not really any of my business, eh?”

“Good. You didn’t see anything.”

“Nope.”

Willow stoked up the coals again. “There’s rocks in the chest next to the alchemy engine.”

Woodie blinked.

“The big machine with the crank on it.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Woodie helped himself to a handful of stones, tossing them in his backpack. When he turned around, Willow was on the coals again, this time belly-up.

“You do it with the clothes on and everything?”

“I’m cleaning me and my clothes!”

“Huh.”

Well alright then. 

He waved goodbye and started walking. 

_She’s completely_ **_nuts._ **

Woodie just shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the irony that lucy the talking axe is calling willow crazy has completely escaped the lumberjack who talks to his axe.


End file.
